


His First Loss

by AuriKitty



Category: Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types, Original Work
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:02:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28024428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuriKitty/pseuds/AuriKitty
Summary: Z gets his shit wrecked, gets mad.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 7
Collections: Sin Bin DnD





	His First Loss

The low music of the tavern is almost a taunting welcome as the party comes to turn in for the night. He could tell that their weary party caught a few eyes and attracted a few whispers from their disheveled, bloody and wounded appearance. Z pays little mind to the tavern owner, already knowing what room he wanted.

Gods, he is tired, so, so very tired.

It is almost a relief that sleep would be coming - gods, he just wants to sleep, why are they still talking - but through that haze, his eyes snap up to Zirian, just after she offered to pay for the party's room, his room. The subdued anger rises tenfold as green eyes flared, and he said through grit teeth. 

"No need," Z quickly interjects, now looking at the innkeeper. "I'll pay for the best you have." 

He's the first to grab his key and head to his room, ignoring the antics of the party members behind him. He tries to keep his head up, but feels the weight of his armor, pulling at him, dragging his feet as his body heavier with each movement. He doesn't want the help, and he's glad that he doesn't get it. 

He's thankful for the space as his brown wings drag on the floor. Once he gets in the middle of the room, Z takes a deep breath and slowly extends them.

Pain sears from his back from his wings, a choked cry leaving his lips as he extends them as far the room would allow them to go. He staggers, his body not used to the weight as his hands come out to grab the study desk, pressed against on the wall. Sweat beads at his brows as the light but powerful flaps of his wings pick up and scatter a few stray pieces of parchment. The feathers collectively shudder, then flex, thankfully not seeming to take much damage from the hell he just went through.

Z's always the one powerful, helping others, taking the lead, doing the damage - the cocky motherfucker than could do it *all*. And now, this moment right now, he's never felt more powerless. Straightening up, slowly, he starts to doff his armor, reaches to undo the belts of his armor. The leather-covered half plate glints as he falls to a crumpled heap. It hits the door with a low thud.

He hesitates, but he moves towards the mirror, and the sight was exactly how he felt - worn and defeated. He stays there for a moment, his eyes moving over the bruising and the bloodied cuts. More wounds are there, but he's only has enough energy to stop the bleeding. 

But the bruising is across his body - purple, black, deep roads of red from what may be the internal bleeding - he was hit by a boulder, point blank in the chest. 

And as he stands there in front of the floor length mirror, taking in short, labored breaths. And it just comes rushing back to him:

Sariel coming to him for protection, his magic being absolutely useless in the battle - but he kept his guise up. He didn't want people to know how bad it fucking hurt. Z could do his best to save his part. What good was he if he couldn't protect some goddamn strangers? 

Then came the rock, a projectile he couldn't even see if he wanted to and then he was out, welcomed by the dark abyss of rest.

Until, Zirian brought him back. She gave him a warning, but it was hard to focus on the fact that she came to him - when she never had before. Not at the temple, not in this party, but now, at the brink of death?

And the vision, every single want, need and guilty pleasure being played for the party like a light show, his home, Zirian. The way she glanced at him. And at first, he felt nothing. Even when hearing the voice of the deity, hearing the attempted comfort, the call to action, the urge to fight, it fell on deaf ears. How could he listen to a deity who didn't bother to help them who were struggling in the next room?

Deity? Deity? And the pitiful look on Zirian's face, in awe and searching, kissing up whatever vision just happened.

Searching for answers.

Searching for completion.

Searching for some type of purpose. 

His lips twitch, his nostrils flare, and with the annoyance licking through his veins like sparks of electricity, he roars. He swings his fist into the mirror, it shattering and cracking under the sheer force of his punch. And, despite the pain, radiating up his fingers he looks himself through the remaining cracked glass, barely able to focus the broken man in front of him.


End file.
